


virgin sacrifice

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/F, some cameos from others - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: There is a castle that looms over the village.Loombeing the operative word. It is dark, and twisted, and ominous. Villagers whisper about the undead horror that lives within it, blood on its pointed teeth and violence in its eyes. Thevampire.It’s all very atmospheric, and normally Rose appreciates the aesthetic of it. But faced with the sudden cold practicality of being strong armed by a small but still overwhelming mob of villagers into packing her bags, she suddenly doesn’t find it as romantic.





	virgin sacrifice

There is a castle that looms over the village. _Loom_ being the operative word. It is dark, and twisted, and ominous. Villagers whisper about the undead horror that lives within it, blood on its pointed teeth and violence in its eyes. The _vampire._

It’s all very atmospheric, and normally Rose appreciates the aesthetic of it. But faced with the sudden cold practicality of being strong armed by a small but still overwhelming mob of villagers into packing her bags, she suddenly doesn’t find it as romantic.

“Mother, I’d just like to inform you that I am being sent to my death before I leave,” she says.

Mother tearfully kisses her cheeks, getting lipstick on them. “I never thought you’d move out so soon, Rosie,” she says, her breath reeking of wine. “Promise mommy you’ll write.”

“I’m sorry, but are you so inebriated that you somehow don’t notice the pack of superstitious brutes holding pitchforks and torches _right there?”_ She helpfully gestures towards them.

Said brutes poorly and awkwardly hide said pitchforks and torches behind their backs, grimacing guilty smiles at the mother whose daughter they are stealing for virgin sacrifice to the local monster. Mother waves at them cheerfully.

“So nice of them to help you pack,” she says, and takes a hefty swig of her glass of wine.

Strangely, this last conversation with her mother actually helps. She is ready for the sweet cold monstrous embrace of death now.

“Is _that_ what you’re wearing?” one of the villagers says skeptically when Rose picks up her bags.

“Well, I just picked out what I’d like to be buried in. Help save you all time.” It’s a black brocaded dress that covers her from the top of her neck to the ends of her wrists and ankles, a purple sash tying in the waist.

The mob winces for a bit at that, but that doesn’t stop them from making her change once again before she’s marched up the long steep hill towards the castle. Now in a delightfully breezy and gauzy white dress with a neckline that stoops low enough that she may very well die of hypothermia before anything more supernatural takes her. There’s a _corset._ There’s _laces._ Ruffles. Puffy sleeves. Her mother would love it. Therefore, Rose despises it.

She walks with all of the unhurried dignity of a bride being led by her father to her future spouse, except in this case the father is a pitchfork that keeps poking at her straight back with nervous impatience. She doesn’t let it rush her.

The castle looms larger the closer they get. She notices details she never had before. Ivy crawls over the walls, gargoyles leer down from on high, the windows up high in the towers are stained glass, and the topiary bushes are immaculately trimmed. Who the hell does that, she wonders inanely. She has a sudden image of a foul beast with blood dripping from its chin clipping the bushes with its sharp teeth, and she has to thin her lips and drive her nails into her palms to stifle a giggle.

She may be not as calm as she’d like to think she is.

At last, they reach the door. Two villagers throw her luggage at her feet, another runs up the door and lifts and drops the knocker, and then they all desperately run away down the hill like a large group of overgrown ding dong ditchers.

The doors, of their own accord, creak open with a loud slow ponderousness. The inside of the castle is pitchblack, and against all logic, a cold breeze wafts _out_ from the castle onto her, chilling her to the bone. Moonlight shines down her.

Two glowing yellow eyes with slit pupils like a cat stare out at her from the darkness, except they’re too high up from the ground to be any sort of feline.

“Hello,” she says steadily in the direction of the floating inhuman eyes, perfectly composed. “I am your new virgin bride, apparently.”

There have been other virgin brides. Quite many. All of them pretty girls having just reached womanhood, ripe and young and plausibly untouched. None of them were ever seen again.

Rose has a sheathed dagger tucked into her cleavage, and sharpened knitting needles down her stockings. The plan is simple, vague, and desperate. She does not allow herself to feel anything but confidence.

The eerie eyes reflecting the moonlight fall shut, leaving only darkness. There’s a pained groan from where the eyes had been. “Not again.”

She feels her eyebrows skyrocket up her forehead involuntarily at the voice. Undeniably female, sounding perfectly human and incredibly beautiful. She hadn’t thought to wonder what the vampire’s voice would sound like, but she thinks some part of her had been expecting an impossible animalistic growl tinting all of the words.

And then the vampire leaves the darkness, approaching her, and her mouth goes dry instantly. The moonlight reveals a woman. A pale tall woman with short dark hair, pearly white fangs resting on black painted lips. She is wearing a stunning black patterned dress with long trailing sleeves, and she wears pearls in her earlobes and icicles of some sort of cold looking metal around her neckline. She is not a slavering beast. She is beautiful, and Rose wants to tip her head back for her and be _taken._

The vampire bends at the waist and picks up Rose’s bags for her, pointedly not taking her. Rose feels absurdly let down. The vampire stands up and looks at Rose with a guilty, worried crease in her fine brow.

“I apologize for this unfortunate turn of events,” she says, her words neat and precise, carefully enunciated around her pointy fangs. “I promise I did not ask for you. Um. That is not to say that you are not-- ah. I mean.”

 _I did not ask for this either,_ she thinks.

The vampire spends a moment just standing there and looking quietly panicked and helpless, and Rose realizes that she would be blushing if she were mortal.

Rose lets herself grow a little more relaxed in the company of someone who isn’t as good at hiding themselves as she is. She smirks, just slightly.

“Wishing you had the receipt?” she asks.

The vampire makes a sharp turn and walks into her castle. She has Rose’s luggage, so she follows. Also: she is now officially intrigued.

The inside of the castle consists of dark stone, overwrought decoration, and dark finely woven and highly detailed tapestries and rugs. There are vases teeming with artfully arranged flowers. There are very many paintings of tastefully posed gorgeous naked women.

After the third half familiar face staring out at her from the paintings, she realizes that they’re of her predecessors. The virgin brides.

“So,” spills out of her mouth, “how exactly do you dispose of them, and what is it that drives you to end them?”

“What?” the vampire says.

“Do you eat them whole? Is there a corpse basement? Do you burn them? Do you bury them in your exquisitely tamed garden as mulch? Is it psychosexual? Is it because of childhood trauma? Is it purely inhuman instinct?”

The vampire delicately puts her bags down and turns around to face her. Rose places one featherlight hand to her bosom, like a dainty maiden. The knife will be easier to retrieve than the needles.

“I would not eat anyone whole,” the vampire says. “Bones are a bit much for my teeth. There is not a corpse basement, as that would be unsanitary. Burnt corpses smell horrid. I have enough mulch as it is. It is _not_ psychosexual. My childhood was fine. I am not ruled by my instincts.”

She and the vampire make intent eye contact for a long moment.

“Where are my manners,” Rose says, smiling elegantly. “My name is Rose Lalonde.” And then she curtsies.

The vampire, seemingly pushed off balance, flusteredly bows deeply at her. “Kanaya Maryam,” she says.

“Aww,” a new female voice calls out, and Rose looks upwards toward the source of it. Above them, two women peer down at them from over the bannister of the second level of the house. One has glasses, green eyes, buck teeth, and long dark hair. The other has long wavy hair, an amused smile, and a rust red dress. She recognizes them from the bride portraits. The green eyed one had been wearing nothing but a white sheet, which had been painted as suggestively being only one movement away from slipping off of her shoulder and revealing everything. The one with the red dress had been covered by nothing but strategic placement of her long locks of hair.

“You’re getting along,” the red dressed one coos.

“Actually, I think you will find that she was accusing me of mass murder only moments ago, Aradia,” Kanaya says primly.

“I did that too,” the green eyed one says. “And then I tried to punch you in the face.”

“Yes, thank you for the reminder, Jade.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Aradia says, and then tugs Jade away from the bannister, and Rose listens to their fading giggling and footsteps. “We’ll keep the others out of your way too!”

“Well, that’s shoots my next guess down pretty deftly,” Rose says.

“Which was?” Kanaya inquires.

“You trapped their souls in the portraits.”

Kanaya’s shapely mouth twitches upwards at the corners. She picks up the bags and continues down the corridor. Rose follows, new information settling in her mind.

“I would ask the village to stop sending me sacrifices,” she says, “except that Terezi convinced me not to. If a parent agrees to sacrificing their daughter to me, then that probably means that they’re happier here with me than they were with them. And you have my permission to go back at any time that you wish.”

Rose thinks about going back to bitter resentment and booze.

“I’m good,” she says.

Kanaya nods, like this is no surprise.

“I just wish my castle was bigger,” Kanaya despairs. “I am afraid I am running out of places to put you all. Everyone is already sharing their bedrooms with at least one other girl. I don’t know--”

“Even you?” Rose interrupts, and it takes a moment for her to catch up with herself. She is briefly astounded at her own ingenuity and daring. This must be what it’s like for everyone else all of the time.

“I-- no?” Kanaya says, still catching up.

“I see,” she says, eyes half lidded with suggestion.

“Oh,” Kanaya says.

Rose steps into Kanaya’s space. Moonlight hits them from one of the windows. Kanaya, unfairly, looks even more beautiful up close, like a snowflake upon close inspection. Rose has been sacrificed to her. Rose is wearing a corset and a dress that shows off her decolletage. Her bosoms may very well be heaving with desire, hidden knife or no. She tilts her head up, because Kanaya is deliciously taller than her.

“Catch me,” she says, and lets herself drop like a ragdoll.

Kanaya yelps, drops her luggage, and grabs at her, arms going around her back. Rose continues to be limp so that her back arches, so that Kanaya has to take more and more of her weight. Her eyes are wide, her expression shocked, her face close.

“What the fuck,” Kanaya says.

“My hero,” Rose says. She nestles a hand into the back of Kanaya’s hair. “Either kiss me or bite me; make up your mind by the time you get there.”

And then she pushes Kanaya down to her, to either drink of her neck or press their lips together.

Kanaya, at last succumbing to the genre they clearly live in, does both. The hated white dress stains wonderfully red.


End file.
